The Artist’s Way: Basic Principles

Bolstered by a new, albeit tentative openness to the leviathan that is Self-Help, I liberate The Artist’s Way from a dusty shelf and read through the Preface and Introduction. It takes seven lines for the author to imply that the book will change my life. Four lines on, she confesses that she hears this all the time. What was the word for humblebrag when this was written? Brag? This is the point where I should walk away; it sounds too much like pyramid selling, some sort of literary Ponzi that has already taken seventeen pounds I could have spent on paper and ink. But it’s not the money: my objection is to what I suspect is the psychology at play here. If the book doesn’t change my life, if I don’t read carefully and follow the tasks and exercises to the letter, it will be me who has failed, missed the nuggets and who is wasting his time. So yes, this is where I abandon ship. Times have changed, however. I have nowhere to run and we’re all in hiding anyway. Some days later I will read about assumption reversal and realise that I’m employing a well known technique – which my wife, a management consultant, tells me she could have helped me with – to invert my established beliefs about creativity, but at this moment, as I turn to my laptop with familiar dread, I think why not do what I wouldn’t do? Flip things on their head, do what is uncomfortable and see what happens. I turn to The Basic Principles.

Ignoring the phrase spiritual electricity, I choke on spiritual chiropractor. God appears a lot, Christ chips in and there is a sentence about forging a creative alliance with the Great Creator. It’s not going well. ‘I do not ask you to believe this,’ says the writer, and ‘you don’t have to believe in God.’ I beg to differ, given the language on the pages in front of me and the fact that five of the ten Basic Principles make reference to God, the creator or a divine source. The margins of the pages are filled with quotes from a dizzying variety of sources – Brahms, the Talmud, and Louis Armstrong for example – which have no doubt been cannibalised by millions of Instagrammers. The quotes, that is. I’m impatient to read about the morning pages and to find something I can get to grips with, but still, I’m suspicious, not least when I turn to the page entitled How To Use This Book For Your Creative Recovery. It’s that last word: recovery. I sense a twelve steps style of approach and that makes me uncomfortable. I am told that the exercises are essential, to work to a schedule and to try to complete about half the tasks. Two sentences jump out at me: ‘In choosing which half of the tasks to do, use two guidelines. Pick those that appeal to you and those you strongly resist.’ I wouldn’t say this has me hooked, but it’s enough to make me read on. I’m warned about emotional tumult, withdrawal and undergoing a time of mourning. There will be tears, but I must embrace them as a necessary part of creative moistening. I’m alone at my desk, but this feels like being love-bombed from afar.

Perhaps I should tack a little picture of Cariad Lloyd to the corner of my screen. She is a fine and productive and successful artist and as far as I can tell she came through this programme – you see, I’m already thinking in those terms – unscathed. I flick ahead. The morning pages are coming up; this is what I’ve been waiting for and as if to give me the strength, or to remind me how much I need to get to it, a list of bullet points nails many of my neuroses: it’s not too late; it’s not egotistical; your dreams do matter; you’re nearest and dearest respect and support your endeavours; and what you are pursuing is not a luxury. Clever, clever Julia: I’m in.

Read the next instalment here.